Fathers, Sons and Memories
by Hildegaarde
Summary: A General's solution to a 'headache' prompts each of the Heroes to remember the past . . . and think about what makes a hero.
1. Chapter 1

This is a sequel to my story 'For You, the War is Over', inspired by a comment on the Larry Hovis website about a spin off from the Hogan's Heroes show that never ended up being written.

* * *

**_1975, an undisclosed location in London, England_**.

One stubby finger was rubbing thoughtfully over his graying sideburns while the other hand tapped mindlessly on the desk. No one could have accused the elderly man of staring through his aide, but he conveyed the distinct impression that his attention was not on the sandy-haired young man standing so patiently in the doorway of the office.

"Excuse me, General?"

"Yes, Phillips, what is it?"

"Is something wrong, sir? You've been scowling at that portrait on the wall for nearly ten minutes."

"Have I? I have a headache, Phillips. A big nasty headache known as the Iron Curtain. Downing Street heard about the incident at the Belgian embassy and wants something else put in place immediately."

"Sir, weren't the French involved in that? Why not ask them for some assistance?"

"I'm not handing over a British mission and British agents for the French intelligence to mess around with! I've learned my lesson—keep a firm hand on the reins . . . unless the Americans decide to get involved."

"May I make a suggestion, sir?"

"Please do, and some tea while you're at it."

"Here's the tea, sir, Earl Grey as usual, and that suggestion I mentioned. I happen to be in touch with an old schoolmate, and it occurred to me that he may be the answer to the problem. I put his file somewhere on your desk yesterday."

"Hmm, oh yes . . . here it is. A schoolmate, you say?"

"Actually, he was up at school with my younger brothers and was in the same class as the twins. But he knows my entire family quite well."

"Seems an interesting sort of chap—Phillips! Is this—do you happen to know what his father does?"

"He's recently become president of the Spotswood Bank, General. Do you know him, sir . . . sir?"

"Phillips, are you old enough to recall the war?"

"I was born during the Blitz, if that counts for anything."

"Never mind then. During the war, I had the perfect solution to my present-day little problem. A team of men operating behind enemy lines that make today's agents seem like bumbling clods. It seemed as though they could do anything—although it was usually through the most unconventional means imaginable."

"A pity you can't use them again, sir."

"Quite so. You know . . . Phillips, I have an idea. I am writing a list of names that I want you to investigate thoroughly. Pull whatever strings are necessary to get me every possible scrap of information about these men. If this works it could be the greatest intelligence opportunity in thirty years. Here is the list, and remember that I need the information by yesterday!"

"Right away, sir."

* * *

"General, I've assembled the files that you requested last week. I must say, sir, that the US State Department has been most helpful in this matter. It wouldn't at all surprise me—"

"Thank you, Phillips. What have you learned?"

"Here's your tea, sir. I have a basic background for each of them if you'll review the files . . . your first choice was unfortunately killed in a helicopter crash a few years ago. The lieutenant was flying a chopper that malfunctioned weeks before he was due to be shipped to Vietnam from the US base in Germany. There were no survivors."

"Hmph. Any brothers, by any chance?"

"Yes sir, actually there is one older brother. I found quite a lot in the USAAF files. Currently holding the rank of captain, graduated from West Point but is serving in a different department to his father—"

"Who I see made the rank of Lieutenant General. I always said he'd make general or be shot."

"Quite, sir. The captain is unmarried, votes Republican, trained as a pilot and is qualified in a rather surprising number of different aircraft, holds security clearance equal to our level seven, and has a reputation for somewhat outrageous military maneuvers. When I made the initial inquiry, the sergeant I spoke with seemed to assume that I was investigating on behalf of a young lady, however I was given to understand that the captain is not currently involved with any particular young lady."

"Chip off the old block."

"Beg pardon, General, I didn't quite catch that?"

"Never mind, Phillips. You weren't born until the Blitz."

"If you say so, sir. The next file is that of the engineering and sound specialist. The State Department was most reluctant to provide any information on this gentleman, as it seems that they have employed his services in the past and do not wish to be hindered should they desire to do so again."

"Never mind the State Department!"

"Yes sir. He graduated from high school with a degree in engineering and went directly into the employ of an electrical company, of which he is a valued and dependable employee. On three occasions he has contracted to the State Department to supply and install private listening devices in certain buildings. He is not married and his hobby is fishing, rigorously every other weekend except in cases of severe personal illness or a death in the family."

"You are a fount of wisdom, Phillips."

"Thank you, sir. If I may venture a comment, I think it highly unlikely that the gentleman in question would blend in with the local population . . . should he ever be called upon to perform a mission on European or Soviet soil."

"That's my problem, Phillips. What about the other chaps?"

"The last of the three Americans is working in the pyrotechnics factory which was recently sold by his father to move onto a wheat farm—"

"I believe I understood the general gist of that sentence, but I warn you that you may need to repeat it later."

"In that case, would you care for another lump of sugar in your tea? As I was saying, the American is located in South Dakota. He is said to enjoy a gift for language and is involved in tutoring European immigrants, however is known to lack personal ambition and has refused promotion on at least one occasion."

"Interesting. I wonder what makes the chap tick."

"To move on to our French connection, General, I have here a list of the restaurants owned by the family. Although based in Paris, where the, ahem, potential agent is currently managing the original business, they have branches in five other cities around France. He has an informal but extremely wide circle of contacts and acquaintance around Europe on both sides of the Curtain, and is an expert marksman."

"Now we come to your childhood's playmate, I take it. Excellent tea, by the way."

"Thank you, sir. Charlie is approximately one hundred and seventy-seven centimeters tall. He has dark hair and weighs somewhere in the vicinity of seventy-seven kilograms—"

"Phillips! And wipe that smile off your face!"

"Sorry, General. Charlie has taken over the job of security for the Spotswood Bank, which is the role his father vacated to take over the presidency. He has never been in trouble with the law as a result of his activities, but he is a skilled safecracker and has occasionally been called on to test the security of art museums by breaking into them—strictly by invitation only. For three weeks last year he was involved romantically with my youngest sister Alice, but the relationship came to a mutually friendly end and he remains a close friend of our family."

"Thank you, Phillips, you've done an excellent job. I do want to make something clear from the outset, though."

"What is that, sir?"

"If this works out as I hope it does, you will definitely share the credit. If it turns into a disaster, I am fully prepared to take all the blame onto my own shoulders. I'm due for retirement anyway. Would you care to have the rest of the afternoon off while I go over these files? We'll begin proceedings first thing in the morning."

"Thank you, sir. Good afternoon, General Wembley."


	2. Bobby

The door was made of white oak, with a silver knob that supported a haphazardly dangling "Do Not Disturb" sign. Behind the door was the personal and private home office of a USAAF general, but Capt. Bobby Hogan's fist showed no trepidation as it rapped. Without waiting for a reply he stuck his head in the door and said, "Can I see you a minute?"

"Come on in." Lt. Gen. R.E. Hogan was seated at his enormous mahogany desk, several maps spread out before him. As his son entered the office, he pushed his seat back and folded his hands, nodding at one of two leather armchairs positioned by the bookcases. "I was hoping for a chat with you before your leave is up."

Bobby sat down and straightened his uniform cap. "Did you want to see me about something in particular?"

The general eyed his son with mild interest. "Did you really requisition a limousine and a Secret Service detail by claiming to be the German ambassador?"

"Most certainly not, sir!" Bobby exclaimed, adding with a rueful smile, "I merely asked for access to a spare car by suggesting that the embassy attaché might not appreciate being left afoot. I was late for a date with Janice, you see."

"I think I do," Hogan grinned. "Sounds like something you'd do—although I remember you promised that you wouldn't impersonate anyone else after that time you went and asked Crane for a job as an extra on that television show they ran a few years back."

"It's not an impersonation to say that my name is Robert E. Hogan and that I used to serve under General Butler," Bobby mimicked his father's voice perfectly. "Of course, I couldn't claim the colonel part, and both Crane and Klemperer knew it."

"You might make colonel sooner than you think," Hogan changed the subject. "I hear you're headed to Europe on some hush-hush mission. Behind the Iron Curtain?"

"How'd you find out?"

"Let's just say I'm an intel kleptomaniac," was Hogan, sr.'s explanation. "Were you planning to tell your mother where you're going?"

"I haven't decided yet." Bobby looked his father over, seeing the silver hair and the crease that had been permanently between his eyebrows since the Cherbourg incident in '69. General Hogan's behind-the-scenes support of the gunboat crews had put an end to any likelihood of a presidential campaign and put a start to his plans for retirement. But his wife, inured to his frequent complaints about the foolishness of anyone above the rank of colonel, kept reminding him that he would be lost without insubordinate young lieutenants to bark at. So he stayed in the military, even after the loss of his youngest son.

"Well, in case you wondered, she already knows. Got it out of me just like that," Hogan warned. "They tell me you're leading the team."

"I'm the only formal military presence. There's supposed to be a British agent as well, and the French are sending a man. I'll meet them sometime in the next week or so."

"Look out for your men, Bobby. Each member of the team is equally important, and your job as a leader is to let each one work to the best of his ability without your messing them around." General Hogan sounded slightly melancholy. "Don't you ever forget that."

"No sir. I won't forget."

"Sometimes it's strange how men who are totally different can work together so well when there's a common mission . . . a common goal. Everyone has their place—and the commander's place is to be everywhere at once and take responsibility for everything while letting his men do what they do best," the general repeated. "And of course, to take the blame when everything falls apart."

"You had a pretty good team during the war," Bobby ventured. His father didn't often discuss his mostly-classified pre-'45 military record, but when he did he always spoke of the men who had served with him as prisoners of war. Bobby was named for his father by the insistence of his mother, but after him came Louisa, Andrea and James Peter, all reminded that their namesakes were true heroes.

"Bobby, they were the best. We worked together, faced trouble together, saved lives together, and defeated the enemy together."

"Why didn't you keep in touch with them after the war?"

Hogan folded his arms over his chest. "I kept track of them in case they ever had any trouble, but I didn't want them to think that I was trying to look over their shoulders, manage their lives for them. They did some crazy stuff during the war, and they deserved a chance to come home and live a real life enjoying the peace they fought so hard for. I think that those four did more to end the war than anyone else."

"I also happen to know that you did some pretty crazy things yourself. Even the State Department guy who talked to me about this mission knew about you."

Hogan's gaze sharpened. "Oh?"

"He went over my record and asked about a couple of . . . incidents," Bobby explained. "Then he mumbled something about my 'Hogan-ness' and that they supposed they should be glad it hadn't skipped a generation, although he was sure that my superior officers wished it had."

His father laughed, but shook his head at the same time. "That reminds me. I have a gift for you, and a little mission of my own for if you end up wandering around Germany with nothing to do. If you happen to run into a fat old teddy bear called Hans Schultz, last seen running a toy company, and a bald creep with a monocle screwed in his eye named Wilhelm Klink—" his grin widened, "toting an ego as big as all of Europe—tell them Colonel Hogan says hi."

"I'll tell them," Bobby promised immediately.

"Thanks, son. And a little going-overseas present . . ." He took a dark-colored item from the corner of his desk and held it out.

Bobby unfolded a leather bomber jacket that was an exact replica of the one his father wore, except that there was no rank listed on the breast pocket patch that read 'R.E. Hogan'. "Thanks, Dad!" He stood and shrugged it on, zipping it up and flipping his cap to the back of his head in a move he had seen his father make countless times.

"Amazing. You look just like him." The soft voice belonged to the one and only person who ever entered the general's office without knocking first. Hanne Goldberg Hogan's appearance hadn't changed much since the war ended, and no one would ever guess that she was old enough to have two sons in the military, two married daughters, and was a grandmother three times over.

She adjusted his collar on her way past to sit on the general's knee. "It seems so strange to see The Hogan without his men, though. Bobby, a Marianne is on the phone wanting to speak to you about tomorrow night."

"Thanks, Mom!" Bobby gave a casual salute and bounded out, leaving his parents smiling after him.

"He'll be fine," Hanne assured her husband. "He's so much like you, you know."

Hogan shook his head. "Sweetheart, you think that's a comfort to me? That's exactly what has me worried." His mind drifted back to his own entry into the Air Force and the beginning of his acquaintance with the military's secrets...

* * *

"Where did you find the roaches?"

"Sir?" Robert E. Hogan stood at attention in front of the colonel's desk, not a hair out of place.

Bushy brows pulled together as the colonel squinted at him. "Don't give me that innocent look, Hogan. I know there are no cockroaches living in the mess hall. What I want to know is where you got them, and why you thought it necessary to have the mess hall closed for fumigation?"

Hogan grinned engagingly at him, confident that he could talk his way out of this situation as he had with all the others he'd fallen into since he enrolled in West Point. "Well, you see, sir, there's a fellow in town who keeps them as pets."

"Cockroaches as pets," Colonel Thomas shook his head in disgust.

"Hissing ones, sir," Hogan clarified. "They grow up to three inches long. We borrowed Leo, Blair, Peter and Joe . . . unfortunately Cadet Wilson dropped a bottle on Leo by accident . . . and then we brought them in inside tomato tins."

"Then you dressed as exterminators to smuggle out the—" Thomas paused.

Hogan obligingly filled in the gap without being asked. "The firecrackers, sir. For Cadet Franklin's bed." He added reassuringly, "We had water buckets standing by just in case, sir."

"How comforting," the colonel said sarcastically. Hogan winced inwardly but kept his outward calm. "How did you get into this academy, Cadet Hogan? By whose recommendation?"

"None, sir. I showed up with a first year class, and everyone assumed that everyone else had lost my paperwork."

"No recommendation," the colonel repeated slowly. "You don't consider yourself to be violating the honor code by your presence here?"

Hogan's left eyebrow shot up. "Sir, my presence here is a testament to the organizational efficiency of the faculty, sir."

Colonel Thomas choked slightly and continued. "You have a family?"

"Mother, two married sisters, sir."

"No brothers?"

"No sir."

The colonel paused and looked him up and down. "Cadet Wilson is the quietest student in his class and regularly had 'sit tours' until last year. Three times he nearly failed exams. Until last year he was considered to be the most likely dropout of the class. Since you began your involvement in his studies, he has risen fifteen places in the class grade rankings. You both are now well into your fourth year and near the top of your class." Thomas recited the facts in a monotone.

"He just needed a little help, sir." Hogan wasn't sure where the conversation was headed and he didn't like the out-of-control feeling.

"May I ask why you felt inclined to secretly tutor Cadet Wilson?"

"Because he's part of the team, sir. He has a place just like everyone else, and I didn't want to see him left behind or possibly expelled when a little help could make a big difference for him. Besides, it keeps me out of trouble . . . mostly."

"Did you know that Cadet Wilson is my stepson?"

Hogan's jaw dropped. "Sir?"

"Then you didn't know? Would it have made any difference if you had?"

"Yes sir," Hogan said honestly.

The eyebrows snapped together again, but the cadet looked him squarely in the face. "I'd have been more discreet in my tutoring, sir, so no one would think that I was trying to curry favors with the colonel. Sir."

He could have sworn that Colonel Thomas was tempted to laugh. The officer shuffled through a stack of papers and pulled out what looked like a letter. "I have here a request for you to join the Air Corps and begin pilot training as soon as you graduate."

It took several seconds for the words to penetrate Hogan's mind. "You mean I'm gonna get to fly? As in airplanes?"

"Not so fast," Colonel Thomas cautioned. "There's a little matter of sabotage of the mess hall."

"Well, we did—I mean, the exterminators did remove the cockroaches, and no one will find any firecrackers stored there—" he began, but was cut off by a raised finger.

"Heaven help the air force, but they say you're exactly the kind of fellow they're looking for. And I fear that if Europe continues the way it's going, there will be another war. If there is, you will be exactly the kind of man we need in our military. Since the, ahem, exterminators were apparently dressed in masks and overalls, this inquiry determines that their identities are unknown."

Thomas sighed and then continued dryly, "I think it would be worth turning a blind eye to this little escapade to get you sent off for the flyboys to deal with. You're dismissed, Hogan."

Hogan contained his bubbling excitement long enough to thank his commanding officer and salute obediently. As he pulled the office door open, he heard Thomas say, "Oh, one other thing, Hogan."

He looked back. "Sir?"

"I'm most grateful for what you've done for my stepson. I'll make sure a congressional recommendation makes its way into the files. We can't have our 'organizational efficiency' fall into disrepair." As Hogan's jaw plummeted, the colonel turned away, clearly dismissing him.

* * *

_Author's note: I realize that there isn't really any chance of someone sneaking into an institution like West Point, but I figured that if anyone could, it would be Hogan._


	3. Jimmy

The two men hadn't spoken for some time, but it wasn't for lack of things to say.

Jimmy opened his mouth for the third time that morning and then closed it again, watching a dragonfly skim the still surface of the water. No matter how many times he composed the speech in his mind, it never sounded right.

"Why don't you just spit it out?" his father finally asked. "You've been squirming like crazy all afternoon, and at this rate you'll scare all the fish away. Is it about that job for the British?"

"Yeah." Jimmy gave a small sigh of relief. "I won't be able to work on the book about Gramps and the 396th for a while. I know you're looking forward to it being published and all—"

"Hey, I understand." Kinch jiggled his pole slightly. "War changes a lot of things. Not that we're at war, but that could change at any time."

"Good one, Dad. Maybe I'll use that line in a book about your life history."

Kinch's head slewed around to stare at his son so swiftly that his neck gave an audible pop. "You aren't writing a book about me!"

"Why not?" Jimmy winked. "Even with all the stuff you won't tell me about your days as a prisoner of war, your service in Korea would make for a bestseller—wounded in action, field promotions up to Lt. Colonel, enough medals to decorate a Christmas tree. Of course, I could track down your Colonel Hogan and ask him about Europe."

"You better not," Kinch said grimly. "He might just tell you."

Jimmy watched the dragonfly snatch its dinner and disappear behind a clump of bush that hung over the edge of the water. "I've always wondered why he wasn't in Korea with you."

His father was silent for so long that Jimmy wondered if he would reply. "By the time the dust settled in Europe, the colonel and I were the only ones left in the military," he said finally. "He'd already turned down one promotion to general, and I guess he stepped on a few toes when he did. The top brass never did care much for the way Colonel Hogan liked to get things done. By the time the war in Korea came around, he was pretty unpopular."

Jimmy said nothing, knowing the best way to keep his father talking was to keep from asking questions.

"We needed him there in Korea, even asked to have him transferred, but the brass refused. It wasn't a popular war, son, and people don't like to be reminded of it. Don't go stirring up trouble for yourself."

"It's not stirring up trouble to recognize the actions of our country's heroes," Jimmy protested. "That's why I'm writing the book about Gramps and why I want to do one about you."

"Is that why you're doing this mission overseas? Keeping up a family tradition?" Kinch probed.

He had to nod in acknowledgement of the way his father always seemed to know what he was thinking.

"Well, one thing seems to be becomin' a tradition that I definitely don't want you to do." Kinch tapped the end of his pole against his right ankle and it made a hollow rapping sound. "Try not to take a bullet, okay?"

"No sir, I'll do my best to stay out of trouble. You can count on that."

Kinch made a small sound that resembled a snort. "You can tell that to your mother to keep her happy, but I know better. You're not going on any picnic over there, and at the first sign of trouble you'll be right in the thick of it."

"Dad . . ." He fiddled with his rod for a moment. "When you joined the army, did you ever, you know, think about being a hero?"

"Sure, I thought about it. I had all these grand ideas about how I was gonna whop Hitler single-handed . . . live up to all the stuff my father had done in the Great War. It was your Gramps who showed me what a hero really is."

Kinch's voice faded away as he stared, unseeing, across the water, and Jimmy watched as his father's thoughts carried him back…

* * *

He sat on the hard wooden floor of the one-bedroom apartment, eyes wide, taking in everything his father said. One small finger reached out to reverently touch the medal dangling from the brightly-colored ribbon.

Thomas Kinchloe pulled his son up to sit on his knee, and even though he was a big boy of nine James snuggled down. He kind of liked being the man of the house for his mother while his father was away looking for work, but it was much better to have his daddy back.

"Why'd they give you a medal?" he asked.

His father shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I helped some hurt soldiers, son."

"Tell him the whole story." The words came from the doorway. James looked up to see his mother twisting a washrag between her hands, an insistent look on her round face that every member of the family knew meant 'don't mess with mama!'.

"I didn't do it for glory, Velma," Thomas reminded.

Velma's face softened and she untwisted the rag. "I know. But he needs someone to look up to. Someone to have as a hero. Ain't gonna find no one better than his daddy who's already a hero, now, is he?"

The boy sat up to stoutly defend his father. "Of course Daddy's a hero! He found my marble yesterday when I thought it was gone for keeps."

"Your daddy done somethin' during the war much bigger than finding an ol' lost marble," Velma prompted with a tender smile in her husband's direction.

James looked up at his father and then reached out to touch the medal again. It swung slightly on the end of its ribbon, glinting in the lamplight. He remembered that when he was very small his daddy had gone a long way away to help stop some bad people from hurting other folks, and when he came home he walked with a limp and didn't laugh as much as he did before.

There were clothes right in the back of the closet that no one never wore, all the same brown color with bits of ribbon and braid stuck on in places. They were fine clothes, even though there was a hole in one leg of the pants that his mama had carefully mended, and James wasn't sure why his daddy didn't wear them instead of his worn shirt and black pants. But he didn't like to ask, because his father always changed the subject whenever anyone talked about the time he went away.

Thomas took a slow breath and then told the story he had never told before in his own words. Even Velma had only heard it from one of his platoon members, and Thomas never raised the topic himself . . . until now.

Haltingly he told James how three members of another platoon had been pinned down under enemy fire in the mud and trenches of no-man's-land on a battlefield in France. Against orders, Thomas had gone out to drag the soldiers one by one to the relative safety of his own trench.

On his last trip, as he pulled the wounded soldier through the mud to where the rest of the platoon huddled, a shell landed directly on the place where the three had been trapped. If he had been a few moments later, the shell would have killed the three and probably Kinchloe along with them. Shrapnel had ripped through his lower leg, permanently altering his walk.

"So the French general gave me this here medal, to say thanks," he finished quietly.

James sat perfectly still, his gaze never wavering from his father's dark eyes. "Mama's right," he declared. "My daddy is the biggest hero."

His father took the medal and placed it over James's head. "Son, I'm givin' this to you so's you'll always remember what I'm about to say."

Eyes as wide as saucers, James waited silently, holding his breath.

"Always do what's right. Even if no fancy general with braid an' ribbons ever gives you a medal for it, you always stand up for what's right . . . then you're a hero too."

James Kinchloe never forgot those words. Not even when a tenement fire destroyed everything they owned, leaving them with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

He had been heartbroken at the loss of the treasure to the roaring flames, but his father just hugged him and said, "Son, it's not the medal that makes a man a hero. It's who he is and what he does."

After the war, when Kinch and the other P.O.W.s were liberated from Stalag 13, they were decorated in a private ceremony that he was pretty sure was at the instigation of Colonel Hogan. He took the furlough that was offered and the medals that had been pinned on his chest and headed back to the States to find his family.

At the first possible moment he took his father aside privately. "Daddy, I have to tell you something." He hadn't called his father Daddy since he was ten, but the word popped out of his mouth. "I want to give you this—to say thank you for showin' me what a real hero is."

With careful fingers he hung the bright ribbon with its dangling medal around the neck of Thomas Kinchloe. His hero.

_Author's note: Sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter written. I had the file saved on my laptop which crashed not once but twice!_


End file.
